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She grasped at the words, most of them unfamiliar. It had been a long time since she had used the language, really. The conversation about the bread in the market and the price of pears had not kept them sharp, anyway.

Every one of them was poetry, dripping with half-remembered meanings, the picture they painted all the richer for her lack of memory.

Her fingers traced the words until she remembered, banishing the ghosts with each fingertip, chasing them to the next hazy word.